NOVEMBER 2010
Howdy! Our old house was born in 1890 B.P. (Before Privy). Imagine stormy winter nights—Shudder! Confidentially, it creaks. At night, sometimes, our south bedroom window gently rattles. “Tis the wind and nothing more,” says wife Babs. I say it’s low-flying jets or low-flying SUV’s. The long-bearded gent next door says it’s pixies. We considered naming our house Franz (It lists). We named it Limberlost (I lost my limber years ago). A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST was my Mom’s favorite childhood book. In ‘95 Babs and I made our Eastward Ho! Eureka! We found our Limberlost. It’s our enchanted Irish woodland of a backyard. Fitting, for our wee house was built for Leprechauns. How wee is it? Well, the mice are hump-backed. You have to go out on the porch to change your mind. When you turn the door knob, you rearrange the furniture. I’d call that pretty wee. For a long time, seven folks inhabited this house, plus pets. How they managed, I’ll never know. They must have used Vaseline. After her Mom died last August, Babs, the good taste lady, set about re-birthin’ Limberlost. She had the outside painted from tattletale gray to barn red with mustard yellow and Limberlost green trim. She interior-decorated American country style. She just loves antiques, I being a case in point. Over our newly crackled fireplace, Babs took down a life-size portrait of her sainted ex-husband, Chris (his eyes used to follow me all around the room). She replaced it with a big print of bears dancing in the forest. Then our Polish pals, Roman and Marek, peeled, planed, plastered, primed and painted upstairs and down. Everything was under control. Why, at last, I managed to get some grass growin’ out on the tree-shaded bald spots. Limberlost is Babs’ beautiful year-long valentine, a magic heritage for the neighborhood and for those who follow. Good goin’, gal. When you come into our house you are greeted by a stairway leading up to the bedrooms. Prior to the paint job, the stairway wall was a mosaic of black-framed autographed 8x10 glossies of our pals. The pictures on our wall of fame covered a multitude of stains. The house looked not unlike a cheap agent’s office. Now, our rogue’s gallery is consigned to the deep…to the walls of my basement playroom, my guilt-free zone, where I practice my Four R’s: Readin’, Ritin’, Ruminatin’ and Roisterin’—all I lack is Hutch’s Hideaway (entrance through a secret panel), to be used only in emergencies, such as visits from Aunt Hattie or Babs stalkin’ me to mow the lawn. I’m computer challenged, but I have my share of websites down here. I never get lonesome, not with all my compadres on the walls. Howdy, Jocko, Irish, Sue Ane, Dobe, Verna, Jim—Ah, Jim! What a nifty photo, pard. Ol’ Jim in cowboy duds, battered hat like his dad’s, lookin’ over his shoulder with a shy, honest smile—the inscription: “To two great new friends, Will and Barbara—Thank God for Memphis, Jim Rogers.” Ay dogies, the son of The Cherokee Kid, Will Rogers, my all-time hero.
—Adios! |
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